


Victori Spolia

by chamyl, entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Baking, Banter, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Grinding, Hair-pulling, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Playful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25054318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: “You’re the nice one, obviously. You’re the one I’m supposed to menace, as a demon. You’re the one that’s supposed to be about peace and love and - and - heart-warming stories of animal friendship.”“I believe I’m also the one that’s supposed to thwart your wiles, and I did a fine job of it too.”“Yes, but we’re adversaries, aren’t we? Duality of nature and all that, opposite sides. I figure one of us has to be the predator. I know you’ve seen Hell, wouldn’t last there long if you were prey, angel.”🤼In which Aziraphale and Crowley try to settle an argument.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 166
Kudos: 818
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically, Our Own Side, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Victori Spolia

It’s very early on a Sunday morning, and Crowley is still a half-awake, half-naked tangle of lean limbs and ruffled hair when his phone pings.

With a groan he rolls over to get it, wincing as the light from the screen hits his eyes.

“Aziraphale!” He calls out, tossing the phone away and sinking face first into the pillow.

He listens to the soft shuffling of feet as the angel walks into their bedroom.

“Good morning, darling.”

Crowley cracks one yellow eye open, turning his face just enough that the pillow won’t muffle his voice. He points in the general direction he threw his phone. “It’s your friend Margaret from the book club. _Again_.”

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale twinkles, sitting on the bed, and now Crowley can see he’s wearing an apron and carrying a wooden spoon with him. Definitely baking, then. “She did say she’d send me a funny video.”

“Aziraphale, for—whoever’s sake, just get a smartphone already. _Please_. She keeps sending me random stuff.”

“Oh my.” The angel settles down next to him, back against the headboard, with one of his happy little wiggles. “What did she send?”

For all of Crowley’s glaring and grumbling, he sits up, retrieves his phone, and opens up the video.

Aziraphale practically melts at the sight of the orange tabby who has befriended a white, one-legged pigeon, and now they’ve become inseparable and do everything together. Crowley rolls his eyes at the saccharine music and the sappy captions floating at the bottom of the screen.

“It says that the cat found the poor, bedraggled thing in the rain, and they’ve been friends ever since.”

“Are they though?” Crowley feels compelled to be suspicious of something so obviously designed to evoke an emotional response. “I mean, can you really be friends with something you’re supposed to eat?” Crowley thinks about asking if Aziraphale could be friends with an exceptionally nice apple turnover, but he already knows the answer to that. “Maybe it’s just, y’know, in case of lean times.”

Aziraphale’s reply to that is an unhappy noise, clearly disappointed that Crowley would suggest such a thing.

“Look at that.” Aziraphale tips the phone towards him, in a way that’s not really necessary since Crowley can see perfectly well. The cat has its chin resting gently on the pigeon, who doesn’t even look mildly disgruntled at being used as a rest - in fact both of them look disgustingly content. “Is that the face of an animal biding its time, or ‘playing the long game’?”

Crowley rolls a noise around in his throat, he has to admit that it is not.

“Alright, fine, maybe he just felt bad for him, what with having only one leg and everything.” He pokes at the small screen, where the cat is now washing the pigeon, making its ridiculous pigeon head bob up and down with every rasp of his tongue.

Aziraphale peers up at him as the video plays, smiling as though Crowley has said something funny.

“Are you suggesting that the vicious predator felt pity for the poor creature?”

“Who said vicious? I never said _vicious_. It’s just - it’s what the cat does, instinct and all that - it’s natural, isn’t it? It’s not all wanton savagery for the sake of it.” He finds himself strangely offended by the thought of it.

“You could say it overcame its nature,” Aziraphale says, with what Crowley considers an entirely unnecessary amount of emphasis.

“Yeah?” The demon can feel his right eyebrow beginning to twitch. “Is that what you think is happening? The pigeon managed to ‘ _tame the beast’_?” He draws out the last three words, letting the last die on a hiss.

“Oh, not at all.” Aziraphale taps on the screen, accidentally taking a screenshot and muttering _oh, dear_ to himself. “In fact, I don’t think the pigeon was ever in any danger. It could have taken off at any moment, after all.”

Crowley mulls it over for a moment. He can tell he’s missing something about this conversation - something crucial.

“Oh, look at that!” Aziraphale squeals, and Crowley focuses again on the video. The cat is rolled up into a circle, sleeping peacefully, and the pigeon is fast asleep right on top of him. The angel smiles, “He reminds me of a certain someone.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker towards him and Crowley makes an indignant noise.

“No he doesn’t. I don’t sleep curled up—well, fine, I do sometimes, when I’m a snake, but - _most days_ , I don’t sleep curled up in a circle, for starters.”

“Oh, but I meant the pigeon.” Aziraphale taps the screen again, once more forgetting that it’s a phone and not a book, and takes another screenshot. “What an annoying piece of technology—what I’m saying is, you too tend to, well, drape yourself all over me when I’m reading and you’re asleep.”

“What? I don’t.” Crowley protests, knowing very well that it’s a lie. Aziraphale is soft and warm and the demon is still very much a snake deep down, he’s bound to appreciate that kind of thing. “And I’m no pigeon. If anything, I’m the cat in the scenario.”

“You believe you’re the predator, then?” Something about the way Aziraphale’s lips twitch into a smile makes Crowley feel defensive.

“Of course I am.” Of course he is, it makes perfect sense.

“Hmm.”

Crowley dislikes the way that noise doesn’t sound anything like agreement. It doesn’t even have that ‘I’m willing to be convinced by your argument’ feel to it. He has an argument. There is an argument and he’s going to make one.

“I’m a demon,” he points out, annoyed by the fact that he even has to. “Y’know, skulking in the dark, fiendish wiles, all the torments of mankind and all that bollocks. How exactly am I not the predator in this scenario? I mean, look at you.” Crowley gestures at the angel, nestled comfortably in the pillows, smelling like books and vanilla essence, bow tie still a fraction crooked where Crowley had tugged on it for a kiss before the angel left the bedroom earlier that morning. Fluffy hair a little wilted from the heat of the oven.

Aziraphale’s fingers have hovered over the screen without touching it for too long and it’s gone dark, much to his obvious annoyance. But he very quickly stops poking at it irritably when he registers what Crowley has said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you - you’re the _nice_ one, obviously. You’re the one I’m supposed to menace, as a demon. You’re the one that’s supposed to be about peace and love and - and -” Crowley waves a hand at the phone. “Heart-warming stories of animal friendship. There’s still flour and vanilla essence all over your apron, for Somebody’s sake.”

Aziraphale looks down at himself with a small noise of surprise. Though the distraction is brief.

“I believe I’m also the one that’s supposed to thwart your wiles, and I did a fine job of it too.” Aziraphale takes a moment to frown, as if remembering many situations when he may have cut a few corners on the thwarting. “In my own way at least. It was part of my duties, even if it was sometimes an unspoken part that I chose to interpret as I saw fit. There was still the expectation that if I came across demonic interference I was supposed to - well, thwart it. That doesn’t feel like the behaviour of a prey species.”

The angel’s kind of got him there, Crowley has to admit.

“Yes, but we’re adversaries, aren’t we? Duality of nature and all that, opposite sides. I figure one of us has to be the predator. I know you’ve seen Hell, wouldn’t last there long if you were prey, angel.”

Aziraphale lowers the phone and frowns at him.

“Just because I never chose to - to use the full extent of my angelic might against you -”

Crowley feels compelled to interrupt. “I’m sorry, what?”

Aziraphale hesitates before continuing. “I—well, obviously.” He says, and Crowley doesn’t really understand what’s so obvious about it. His pointed look has the angel continuing. “We never quite—it never quite got that far, did it? We never had to get _rough_ with each other. Long before the Agreement, we’d stay out of each other’s way. Then, we worked together for a few centuries. Which means - you’ve never had occasion to see me rising to my full power.”

Crowley snorts. “Well, you haven’t seen me rising to mine either.”

“I have not.” Aziraphale concedes. “Still, my angelic nature should mean that—"

“Oh, bullshit.” Crowley takes the phone from him and sets it aside, then climbs on top of the angel, straddling him. He blinks for a moment - the smell of vanilla really is overwhelming, it feels like sitting on a muffin. Not that he minds. “Come on then. Get rid of me. Let’s see the extent of your ‘angelic might’.”

He doesn’t make air quotes with his fingers, but only because he regretted inventing them almost as soon as he did.

“Oh, come now Crowley, I was in the middle of baking…” Aziraphale pats him on the shoulder.

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to knock me off and get back to it, should it? You and your wondrous powers, and your—”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because Aziraphale touches his arm and a slight, barely there electric shock climbs its way up his shoulder.

“Ow.” Crowley massages the offended spot on his arm. “That stung a little.”

He looks up, can’t help but laugh at the expression Aziraphale’s wearing, somewhere between apologetic and determined.

“That the extent of your angelic might, is it?” It’s clearly not, but Crowley never has been able to resist the urge to tease him. It’s the next best thing to a Temptation, which he’s never felt right turning on the angel. Not Aziraphale.

There’s a very unangelic huff. “Certainly not, I’m simply demonstrating that I am capable of defending myself in ways that you’re unaware of.”

“Oh it’s defending yourself now, is it?”

“Well I’m an angel, I couldn’t possibly attack you first.”

Crowley gestures pointedly at his arm, which the angel just electrocuted - a tiny bit. Aziraphale’s expression perfectly conveys that under no definition does that constitute ’an attack.’

“Fine, fine, looks like I’m going to have to put my grubby hands on you first.” Crowley tries to make it sound like a hardship. He adjusts his weight a touch on the angel’s lap. “If only to settle this matter once and for all. Shall we play it the human way, ten second pin?”

“I have a Victoria sponge baking,” Aziraphale says with a frown. As if that’s a perfectly valid excuse not to wrestle in the bedsheets with Crowley. Honestly, he’s almost offended.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want to _rise to your full power_?”

Aziraphale glares up at him. “I knew I shouldn’t have phrased it like that.”

“No, no, very threatening, very suggestive, almost demonic of you.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, fine.” Aziraphale settles his warm hands on Crowley’s waist. “Brace yourself please, darling.”

Crowley frowns in confusion, before one eyebrow pulls up curiously.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one attacking you?”

Aziraphale nods. “Might want to brace yourself anyway, just in case.”

“Wait.” Crowley snaps his fingers, unties the knot behind the angel’s back to get rid of his apron. Then, because he’s no fool, he reaches behind Aziraphale’s neck to untie the knot at his nape with his hands instead. Aziraphale squirms in a way that’s incredibly satisfying. “Wouldn’t want to ruin this, I’d never hear the end of it.”

The angel lets out an amused huff of breath as Crowley takes off his apron and carefully sets it aside. He looks down at himself - wearing barely a thing, just a pair of boxer briefs as black as he could get them.

Oh yes, this is going to be an interesting morning.

For all that he’s perfectly comfortable sitting on Aziraphale’s plush thighs, he now needs to make good on his words. Besides - he’s genuinely curious how this is going to play out.

From where he is, the thing that makes the most sense is to try and get his right arm over and around Aziraphale’s right shoulder, capture him in a tight hold, then try to tilt him over. A guillotine choke, he thinks it’s called - and the irony doesn’t escape him.

He doesn’t even get as far as getting his wrist past the angel’s neck. Aziraphale grabs his forearm, presses it against Crowley’s left shoulder, and the demon only has a split second to realise his other arm is trapped against his chest by his own elbow - before the angel flips him over, sending him face first into the mattress and climbing on top of him.

“I thought I told you to brace yourself!” Aziraphale protests, as if Crowley was actively trying to get flipped like a pancake rather than doing his best to defeat him.

The demon makes an undignified noise as he takes stock of his current condition - a mouthful of sheets, his arms tangled and trapped between his chest and the mattress, his knees bent under him, Aziraphale’s weight keeping him securely pinned.

Under any other circumstances this would be the start of a very promising morning, and Crowley’s body is already confused about why he’s trying to fight when the part that comes after is normally so enjoyable. But today his bloody pride is at stake. If Aziraphale wins he’s never going to hear the end of it.

Aziraphale sets up a count while Crowley tenses, and pulls, and squirms - in a way that’s not entirely unenjoyable - against his hold.

“1… 2… 3… 4—”

The bastard angel isn’t even counting quickly, confident that he has Crowley securely pinned to the bed for the foreseeable future. Which, Crowley hates to admit, he might be right about. How had he forgotten how much stronger the bloody Principality was than him? He’d taken his arms out of commission in the first move - add in his weight advantage, clear familiarity with the sport, and the barely-there difference in their heights, and Crowley is rapidly running out of options to turn the tide.

Maybe he should cheat. Just a little bit.

After all, though the ‘no miracles’ rule has been implied rather strongly, Crowley’s corporation isn’t entirely human. Aziraphale couldn’t fault him for using all the physical abilities at his disposal.

He lets a few bones decide they no longer want to be exactly where they are right now, elongates a few others. Then he twists his hips to the side, almost ninety degrees, before pulling his legs up until they slip out from underneath Aziraphale’s.

“Oh, you dirty cheat,” Aziraphale breathes in his ear, as he's almost tumbled forward over him.

Crowley waits for the moment when the angel moves to adjust his grip, as he knew he would, then winds his leg quickly around Aziraphale’s waist and starts to squeeze.

“You’re not supposed to be a constrictor,” Aziraphale mutters, though there’s the slightest strain to his voice.

“I was the first snake,” Crowley says smugly.

“Well, in this case it wouldn’t be impolite to remind you.” Aziraphale shifts, and Crowley feels a telltale pressure against his side that signals the angel is enjoying this a little more than he should. “ _Then the Lord said to the serpent, ‘Because you have done this, you are cursed more than all animals, domestic and wild. You will crawl on your belly’_.”

He emphasises his point by gripping Crowley tightly at the shoulders, trying to keep him pinned so that he won’t be able to tumble them over.

“And eat dust for the rest of my life?” Crowley continues from memory, voice strained from the position he’s in. “Nah, don’t think so.”

He pulls up his free leg, plants the sole of his foot against Aziraphale’s knee, and pushes as hard as he can, succeeding in making the angel lose his balance for a moment - and that’s all Crowley needs. As soon as Aziraphale falls forward Crowley takes advantage of the surprise to brace against the mattress and finally manages to flip them - with an embarrassingly loud grunt of exertion, but he does it all the same.

Aziraphale is now on his back, still holding him at the shoulders, one of Crowley’s legs trapped underneath him, the demon lying over him, stomach to stomach.

Crowley realises that, for all his efforts, he’s still stuck where Aziraphale wants him. But he’s technically on top now, so he starts counting - quickly.

“1, 2, 3—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Aziraphale says, he’s already tightening his grip on Crowley’s squirming arms, feet spreading apart to brace him for the twisting roll that Crowley doesn’t have the strength or the leverage to stop.

He ends up flat on his back, breath punched out of him. Though he does manage to get his other leg up, wrapping it round Aziraphale’s body as the angel pushes himself upright.

Aziraphale’s so busy trying to pin his arms to the bed that he forgets that Crowley’s legs are equally as dangerous.

He manages - despite a last minute twist when Aziraphale realises he’s left himself vulnerable - to hook his legs together at the base of the angel’s spine, and all it takes is a stretching pull and a squeeze. Aziraphale grunts at the sudden pressure, hands falling to grip Crowley’s bare thighs, hot fingers digging in, and Crowley feels him slowly apply his strength against the inevitable constriction, until it becomes clear that he can’t work himself free without excessive force.

“Gotcha,” Crowley crows, triumphantly.

Aziraphale seems unwilling to concede the win.

His hands move to Crowley’s waist, and Aziraphale lifts his entire body off the bed, causing his flailing hand to hit a lamp and knock it over.

Until Crowley ends up in his lap, legs awkwardly tucked around him, one arm still tangled in the sheets. The whole movement seems to have taken the angel barely any effort at all. Though Crowley can’t help but think that’s a lie, and a blatant one - there is a truly excessive amount of effort going on. Obvious and obscene every time they squirm and strain against each other. Distracting enough that it pulls a hiss out of him when Aziraphale stretches to grasp his arms again. He pushes them behind Crowley’s back, fingers spreading to catch both wrists in one hand, to pin them at the base of his spine. Crowley’s thighs tighten under his ribcage. Though he suspects the angel has stopped breathing entirely.

Look who’s cheating now.

Crowley quickly decides he’s perfectly justified if he decides to sidetrack this a little bit.

He lets the grip of his legs slide downward, to Aziraphale’s waist, and starts a slight, bouncing movement that has Aziraphale’s cock rub against his buttcheeks over and over - between several layers of clothing, but Crowley doesn’t miss the way the angel narrows his eyes. He must be feeling this. And he’s never been the kind to resist a spot of hedonism.

“That’s not—” oh, Aziraphale is definitely breathing again now, if that harsh, hot huff of air escaping his lips is anything to go by. “That’s an entirely different—we weren’t talking about—”

“Ten second pin.” Crowley shrugs - as much as he’s able to with his hands held tight behind his back. “No miracles. Anything else is fair game.”

“Is it really?” With the hand that isn’t pinning the demon’s wrists, Aziraphale goes pawing at his front, to the very obvious erection straining through a thin, elastic layer of fabric. “I suppose you won’t mind this, then?”

Crowley makes a startled noise, a jumbled cacophony of consonants that Aziraphale takes as his cue to continue. The angel’s hand sneaks between their bodies to knead at him through his underwear, and Crowley catches himself considering what he’d have to gain from losing.

No, not yet. If for no other reason than because he’s a little mad at himself for not seeing this coming, and he should have. Would have, if he hadn’t been so busy riling up his angel.

“Not very sssporting of you.” Crowley can’t help the way his hips want to shift into the touch. “Fight’s not over yet and here’s you trying to help yourself to the spoils.”

Aziraphale doesn’t even look guilty, he seems pleased by the idea, the hand holding Crowley’s wrists gives a little tug, sliding his buttocks more firmly - more tightly - against the eager nudge of Aziraphale’s very interested dick.

“Oh, I very much hope there’s still a little fight left in you.”

Satan, how was he not prepared for this? Crowley scrambles for some sort of coherent thought - loses it entirely when Aziraphale’s thumb rubs over the head of his cock, smearing wetness across the material.

“Ah.” His thighs jerk around Aziraphale’s waist, desperate to spread so he can push up into the cramped, rhythmic motion of Aziraphale’s hand. “Oh, you bastard.” The fight to keep them around Aziraphale’s waist leaves them trembling.

“Do you concede the fight?”

“No,” Crowley says immediately, not even close. “You never pinned me.”

“Would you like me to pin you?” There’s the smile that Crowley knows so well, and it’s almost impossible not to lean into it.

“Nn - fuck yes.” He breathes a laugh at how easily that slips out. “No, you have to work for it.”

“Hmm, I think I can manage that.” Aziraphale’s hand leaves the shape of him, twists to slip under the material - no, to grasp the material. Then Aziraphale pulls, until cotton and elastic digs hard into Crowley’s thigh, stitching snapping as the fabric gives, tearing open across his skin like paper. His cock bobs free, gently slapping his stomach and leaving a spatter of pre-come. His balls and naked arse settle against Aziraphale’s pale, neat trousers. What remains of his underwear hangs pitifully around his waist and left thigh, and Crowley’s so aroused he forgets how to breathe.

Words. He should push out some words. It’s just - it’s very hard to think straight when Aziraphale is still so infuriatingly, tantalisingly buttoned up, looking smug as anything in his ridiculous bowtie. And Crowley is so exposed, at the angel’s mercy in every way that matters.

“I liked that pair,” he manages to croak out, his throat dry and tight.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale’s hand drags slowly along his back, squeezes the small curve of Crowley’s arse, and the demon almost loses his grip on him, wanting nothing more than to let go, to be able to press back into that warm, soft palm. “They look all the same to me.”

“You wouldn’t _—uhn_.” Aziraphale’s fingers have curled around his buttock and are pressing in, closer and closer, and whatever Crowley was trying to say dies in his throat.

He should fight back. He should at least _try_. But there’s nothing he can think about that isn’t the deliberate, slow movement of the angel’s fingers. Aziraphale knows him all too well, knows how much he likes to be kept waiting - even when he whines and protests against it. When the slick tip of Aziraphale’s finger begins pushing inside him, all Crowley can do is set his jaw and look down at his own reddened cock, twitching helplessly against his stomach, his thighs trembling with the effort of keeping their useless grip on Aziraphale.

“It’s all right, my darling.” By Satan, the angel sounds completely cool and in control, and Crowley’s face burns as he strains against the hand keeping his wrists trapped. “Since you wish to be pinned so terribly, I’ll see to it.”

Yes, that’s what he wants, that’s exactly what he wants. But he can’t just come out and say it, he can’t admit to it, can’t let the blasted angel win without some sort of protest. Never mind that every stupid line of his body is making it obvious that he’s enjoying this, skin flushed red and eager, flexing into the angel’s touches, pushing back onto his deliciously invasive fingers.

Aziraphale leans in just far enough to press his mouth to the underside of Crowley’s jaw, a brief but delicious moment of heat and pressure.

“You beautiful thing you.”

Crowley’s resistance cracks at the words, he lets his thighs slip from Aziraphale’s waist, fall open, leaving him a sprawled, wanton thing in the angel’s lap. He’s rewarded for it with an appreciative hum and a deeper, stretching push, all the way to the second knuckle, and then deeper still. He gives an aborted grind downwards, stopped by the awkward position of his own arms. The frustrated squirm that results has no right to feel so good.

“Fuck. Aziraphale -” The words cut off on a moan when the finger pulls free, teases at the stretch of him, before two fingertips start to slowly press him open again. “Come on, give me something.”

“Oh, no, I think I’m going to keep you here for a while longer.” There’s another kiss to the slope of his throat, and Crowley leans into it.

He does manage an annoyed groan though. Because where Aziraphale’s concerned ‘a while’ could be as little as a few minutes, or as long as a few hours, a few days if he’s feeling particularly bastardly. In this position Crowley’s helpless to do much more than squirm and demand things, until the angel decides to drag him up and seat him on his cock.

Which is unacceptable.

Crowley digs a heel in the sheets, pulls himself closer so he’s rocked into Aziraphale’s trapped erection with every push of fingers. Which provokes a shaky rush of breath against his jaw, and a quick, hard squeeze of his trapped wrists. But Aziraphale makes no move to put him back.

He considers it a success.

Still, the angel’s nothing if not stubborn. Crowley can feel him shifting underneath him, he can tell that Aziraphale is barely holding himself back from pushing up and seeking more friction. If Crowley could form coherent sentences at all, he’d tell him to stop dithering and to please, please press himself up and into him, give it to him as good as he’s got, take any pleasure he can from his body.

Once Crowley’s imagination has taken this turn he’s helpless to stop it, writhing and whimpering against the angel’s merciless fingers. But Aziraphale just keeps going, obstinate and frustrating as always. Crowley is slowly losing his mind - and loving every excruciating second of it.

The angel takes his sweet, sweet time opening him up, torturing Crowley and himself. The pace he sets is maddeningly slow, and the demon distantly hears himself beginning to make some truly embarrassing noises.

He doesn’t care. All he can think about is the moment Aziraphale will finally allow himself to lose control - he’s been on the receiving end of it a few times and can picture exactly how it’d feel to have the angel slowly press inside him, the delicious sting of it, the pressure, the drag of the angel’s thick cock as Aziraphale, at last, completely lets go and thrusts into him with total abandon.

In a brief, startling moment of clarity, Crowley realises he needs to do something right now, he can’t take this anymore. He’s painfully hard and dribbling everywhere, making a right mess of himself.

He doesn’t usually do this, he loves unwrapping Aziraphale piece by piece, loves to be reminded he’s now allowed to do it, allowed to get his hands on buttons and zippers and underneath soft, thick fabric - but today he’s too desperate to wait and he snaps his fingers to vanish all of the angel’s clothing at once.

Aziraphale yelps just as Crowley moans at the feel of burning skin against his own, sounds smothered between their lips when the angel crashes their mouths together. With the hand that’s still holding his wrists, Aziraphale pushes the demon even closer, licks into his mouth, and every single one of Crowley’s thoughts melts right out of his ears.

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale sighs against his lips, but Crowley can feel the wet tip of the angel’s cock dragging against his thigh, eager - he hopes - to push inside the heat of him at last.

He makes a noise of agreement, arching his back to try and take the angel’s fingers as deep as they will go. “The worst.”

Crowley spreads his thighs a little wider, clenching down on Aziraphale just to feel it, to tease himself with the knowledge that he’s going to be taking so much more eventually. He knows suddenly how to get what he wants, how to get what they both want. He doesn’t like it, but here, in their bedroom, when it’s just the two of them, who’s going to know?

“You win,” Crowley tells him, rocking his hips and hissing at how the angel’s fingers move inside him. “I concede.”

Aziraphale looks briefly surprised, but then he’s dragging Crowley in, kissing him hard, fingers twisting and nudging in one last time, before slowly easing free.

Crowley whines at the loss, certain for a second that the angel is going to deny him again.

“Come on then, up on your knees,” Aziraphale says instead, and he finally sounds impatient, gaze sweeping Crowley from throat to desperate, leaking cock. As though he’s finally noticed that he has a naked demon in his lap, one who’s not too fussy about how he’s put to use.

Crowley would feel more smug about it if he wasn’t already tipping forward, balls pressing hot and uncomfortable against the solid throb of Aziraphale’s erection, until he manages to get his knees under him. He can feel Aziraphale grasping himself, a brief press of forearm against the bottom of his thigh, and Crowley hisses impatience, trying to work his barely-open arse down onto the slick, wide head of Aziraphale’s cock.

He gets a sharp swat on the behind for it. A second of sting, followed by a hand sliding over the spare curve of his arse, and squeezing sharply.

“So impatient.” Aziraphale sounds more amused than disapproving.

“Can’t help but be a bit clumsy,” Crowley reminds him. “Unless you want to give me my hands back?” He tugs pointedly at where Aziraphale still holds his wrists, shoulders jerking with the movement.

“I’m still thinking about it.”

Crowley exhales a grumbling protest. Clumsy it is then.

“Still, I’m going to take my reward,” he grunts, Aziraphale’s leaking cock slicking the flesh around his anus as he shamelessly rubs against it. “I conceded, and it’s only fair. Thought angels were all about fairness.”

“Angels are beings of love,” Aziraphale replies and _sure_ \- Crowley thinks deliriously - _call it love, call it whatever the hell you want, just give it to me, give it to me now._ Fortunately, Aziraphale seems to be at the end of his patience too, because he grabs Crowley’s arse in one wide palm, index finger pressing right above his entrance, and helps him down onto his cock. “You greedy thing.”

Crowley hisses at the breach, tongue forking between his teeth and becoming a thin, desperate thing that reaches towards Aziraphale like a branch to the sun. The demon’s raven black wings itch in another dimension, ready to spread open at any moment.

It’s awkward, this position - his knees planted on the mattress on either side of Aziraphale’s plump thighs, his wrists held behind his back - and he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care, because he’s finally getting what he wants, and he’ll be damned if he won’t enjoy every second of it.

Well, more damned than he already is.

Aziraphale starts fucking up into him, stretching him wider with each jerk of his hips, and Crowley takes it all proudly, eagerly, held down by the angel’s grip against the force of his thrusts. He tilts his head back, eyes fluttering closed. The perfect portrait of ecstasy - much like one of those sacred statues in churches, which he’d think is hilarious if he was capable of complex thought at all.

He barely registers when Aziraphale’s hand finds his hair, but he feels the press of his bare chest, the open wetness of his mouth at his throat, and he can hear the heavy, groaning breaths. There are words laid against the skin, Aziraphale calls him a lovely thing, calls him a wicked, hungry, clever, beautiful serpent.

He hisses a protest, but doesn’t tell him to stop, doesn’t pull at his grip. There’s a thumb moving across his open, gasping mouth, tender and fierce and _worshipful_.

Crowley’s fingers scratch for the hand trapping his arms, until the angel isn’t so much holding his wrists as squeezing the fingers of both hands, pushing up in hard, demanding thrusts that leave his stretched rim feeling open and hot and well-used. The quick pushes make his knees skid and slip on the sheets, one leg forced to bend open, foot pressed to the mattress to brace every bouncing thrust, the new angle deep and sharply sweet.

“Aziraphale,” he groans out. It’s a beseeching slur of pleasure, and the angel pulls him in tighter, leaves them folded and crushed together, moving as one in that cramped space, Crowley’s shoulders protesting even as he clenches, and gasps, and rides that delicious, steady _thrum, thrum_ of bliss.

“Is this what you wanted, darling?” The words are hot against the side of his face and he presses into them.

“Yeah, hnh, always. We both knew you were - ah - going to win, you’re so much stronger than me -” Crowley’s breath is knocked out of him entirely when Aziraphale’s free hand curls under his thigh, lifts and opens him out a little wider, turns the awkward thrust and grind into something heavy and rhythmic. “Ah, fuck, s’good. Don’t stop.”

It’s a steady, pounding slam against his prostate that leaves Crowley whining and gasping, his whole body tensing for the end, nails digging sharply into Aziraphale’s palm.

“Fuck -” Crowley presses down, chases it. “You better be close.”

“Just waiting for you,” Aziraphale growls, warm and wet against his ear, and there’s something about the way he says it - something that reminds Crowley of all the times it’s been him waiting for the angel. Patient and faithful and hoping against hope, waiting with no end in sight - and now, oh, now it’s all different, isn’t it? He never really believed they could get here - _thought_ about it, millions of times, built elaborate fantasies he’d sheepishly stash away in the light of morning, pretending they didn’t exist.

But he never thought they would get to be like this, once the careful wonder and tentative touches of the first few times together had faded away, once they both knew the other’s limits and preferences inside and out, and they could banter and tease each other throughout.

There’s something glorious about being taken this way, fucked hard and fast and just perfect until he can’t stop himself, can’t stop the rush of orgasm that thrums underneath his skin, becomes too much to bear - until the harsh nudge of Aziraphale’s cock inside him alone is what makes him finally come.

Crowley makes a mess of himself, all over his chest and stomach, white ropes of come landing sticky and hot on his skin as the blinding pleasure takes his breath away.

He’s only vaguely aware of Aziraphale watching him through it, the angel’s wet lips parted, his blue-green eyes fixed on him, drinking in every detail of him, every second of this sacred, profane act reserved for the angel alone.

Crowley’s left panting, thighs sprawled open and twitching with aftershocks, the rest of his body still held in place for the increasingly desperate movements of Aziraphale’s cock inside him. He loves this part too, the part where the angel lets go, where he lets himself be greedy, lets himself have this.

“Oh, look at you,” Aziraphale says, and there’s something soft and helpless in his voice. Crowley knows perfectly well how ruined he looks, his own pleasure a series of wet streaks and spatters on his skin. His cock still half hard, and sticky with drops that had run and fallen and been shaken free. “Just like this, I want you just like this.”

“You have me,” Crowley says, words jolting out of him on every thrust. “You’ve always had me.” Since the beginning, since the first bloody smile Crowley has been his.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale catches at his hair and pulls him closer, presses their open mouths together as he pushes up into him, again and again, as deep as he can get, spreading Crowley’s thighs clumsily wide.

“Come on,” Crowley urges, clenching down. “Come inside me.”

Aziraphale gives a hoarse cry at the words, fingers closing tight in red strands, as he pushes up, buries himself in Crowley and then stills. He breathes a series of rough, gasping sounds, cock pulsing in quick, wet bursts inside him.

They kiss through it, breaking only for sighs, and shudders, and the occasional pleasurable twitch. Until Aziraphale’s softening cock slowly eases free, and Crowley’s arms are finally released, so they can embrace properly, so they can sink into the sheets, still kissing, legs tangling, come smearing messily across the both of them.

Crowley enjoys the long-denied feel of Aziraphale’s body under his hands, and he indulges for a long moment in all his soft places.

Aziraphale settles with his head on Crowley’s chest. It’s something he loves to do: listening to Crowley’s heart racing after they’ve had sex. Crowley can only guess that, even after all this time, the angel still enjoys seeking tangible proof that they’ve really done this - made love to one another, in any of the many forms it can take.

The angel adores hearing Crowley’s fast heartbeat, running his hands over the tangled sheets, even seeing the mess of sweat and come on their skin. It’s all very human, very normal, trivial even - but it’s been forbidden for so long. Now it’s nothing short of an everyday miracle.

That is, until Aziraphale’s eyes go wide and he remembers—

“Oh no, my Victoria sponge! I forgot all about it! It must be burnt to a—”

Crowley takes his hand, lays a kiss on his knuckles. “I turned the oven off fifteen minutes ago.” He opens Aziraphale’s fingers, kisses the pulse on his wrist. “Breakfast?”

Aziraphale sighs, looking at him like he’s the most precious thing in the whole universe. Crowley has the strongest instinct to run away from that loving gaze, but it’s just as strong as the desire to stare into the sun of him, let himself catch fire. He averts his eyes, takes a moment to collect himself, and looks back at his angel. Aziraphale seems… somewhere between happy and sad. _Moved_ might be the right word for it. “Oh, my love. Yes, yes of course. A late breakfast it is.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Victori Spolia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556653) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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